


Hot Chocolate

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, coffee shop AU, i am afraid of this, kind of, viktor is still a famous skater and yuuri is still really super gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: They were supposed to meet on their stage. Yuuri was supposed to save for a coach, for competition fees and travel expenses, was supposed to worm his way into the big leagues and find Viktor there waiting.Viktor was not supposed to find him, sweating his ass off in this too-small too-hot coffee shop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> SO I wanted to write something for my pal [mi_yanie's](https://twitter.com/mi_yanie) birthday because she's great to me at all times, even when i am being a whinge, and I know she is true victuuri trash so I...tried...my...best 
> 
> This is based on a prompt I saw a while ago: i love hot chocolate So Much but it’s embarrassing to be the adult ordering hot chocolate at a coffee shop, so do you think you could announce that it’s a different drink when you’re giving it to me?? And I super hope it turned out cute enough and not complete crack but *shrug emoji* who knows!! 
> 
> Anyways here u go buddy, happy (early) birthday enjoy

Of all the things Yuuri would like to be doing at twenty two, working in a coffee shop is not one of them.

It’s not that it’s _awful,_  not really. Most days, it’s easy; simple, quiet, same-old same-old day in and day out. The town is small, a little North of sleepy, and it isn’t all that often people stray out this close to the mountain—and as such, the coffee shop is, predominantly, an endless drone of regular faces with regular orders.

It’s not _hard_ , it’s just...there are things Yuuri would much rather be doing with his time.

Yuuri drums his fingers on the counter and sighs.

Beyond the window and over the road, a tiny little family with three tiny little ( _loud_ , Yuuri can hear them even from in here) children are wrapping themselves in hats and gloves and scarves, even as the low, winter sunlight burns overhead. It’s unseasonably warm, but there is still mist on their breath as their mother tugs on the door to a big, square building and ushers them inside.

Yuuri sighs again.

 _That_ is where he would like to be. Twenty feet across the road, in _his_ hat and gloves and scarf, feet strapped in his battered old skates, practising jumps and spins and dreaming of something much, much bigger than the local ice rink.

It’s not like he isn’t thankful for what he has. Yuuri knows he is lucky enough to even _have_ this little rink in a town so far past it’s time, and there isn’t a day that goes by that Yuuri isn’t glad for the privilege of skating there, it’s just....

It’s just, there are bigger rinks, and bigger leagues, with bigger crowds and bigger  _names_ to skate beside.

Very big names. Names plastered in big, white letters on posters stuck around Yuuri’s bedroom walls. Names in English and in Japanese and in Russian, printed over smooth, pale skin and long silver hair and flawless chipped swirls of ice.

Big names like Viktor Nikiforov. For example.

_Click._

Yuuri blinks and rubs at the warmth on his cheeks. Beside him, Phichit is tapping something out on his phone, both corners of his mouth curled up in a tiny smile.

“Thinking about _Viktor_ again, hmm?” He asks, and he turns the screen so that Yuuri can see it.

“D—delete that!”

“It’s cute,” Phichit says. It’s not cute—it’s humiliating. Yuuri stares down at his own face, pink cheeked and slack-eyed, bottom lip caught loose between his teeth, chin balanced on his palm and a vague, dreamy smile pulling at his mouth.

“It’s—”

“— _cute_ ,” he says again. Yuuri buries his face in his hands and groaned into his palms.

“Remind me again—when do you go back home?”

“February fifteenth,” Phichit says, “And you’re not getting rid of me  _that_ easily. You’re gonna come visit, right? I’ve got a list of all the _best_ restaurants and food stalls and—”

And on his goes. Yuuri drops his elbow back to the counter as Phichit talks and talks, about his home and his family and his country, and Yuuri gives him half of his attention, while the rest of his mind roams.

Roams to the rink, and to Viktor.

It’s not like...not like Yuuri is _obsessed_ or anything. He admires him, is all; admires his success, the beautiful arc of his body as he skates, his long, strong legs and the rigid line of his stomach in all those tight...tight outfits…

But _no_. Yuuri is, mostly, in awe of his skills. A prodigy, they’d called him, stealing medals left and right during his debut in the senior circuit, and every single win was justified. Viktor is a natural; excellent control, fast spins and high jumps, fluid footwork but the most mesmerising part of his every skate, Yuuri thinks, is perhaps the way he _feels_ the music.

It’s in the way the notes bleed through him, like he himself is a part of the chords, and it is in the story he tells, the vivid tales he spins with each and every programme.

It’s breathtaking, and _not_ just because Yuuri has a big fat crush on him.

Yuuri shakes his head.

The problem he has, is that has no competition experience under his belt. All he has to show for his efforts are a few ice shows and a YouTube channel with fifty-two subscribers, fourteen of which are people he is either a) related to or b) friends with, none of which will be enough to get him a coach, or to get him all the way to the top. To fight alongside Viktor.

* * *

The day is looking to be slow, just as most Thursday’s are.

He and Phichit have already cleaned all the surfaces, checked all the stock, arranged and rearranged all of the mugs, drawn funny pictures on the chalkboard and rubbed them off again before Minako can see them, and they are counting down the decider round of rock-paper-scissors to see who can leave early, when the bell above the door gives the softest, lightest tinkle echoing through the empty shop and—

—and one, two, four, seven, eight-nine-ten- _eleven_ pairs of feet pile through the doorway.

“What—” Phichit starts, but before the rest of the sentence can leave his mouth, the first customer is ramming into the counter, and demanding a large pot of tea.

“It’s for four,” she says, and Yuuri scribbles the order on a ticket and plasters it to the side of the biggest pot he can find.

“Alright,” he says, forcing a smile, “can I get you any—”

But the lady is already throwing her money on the counter, casting frantic glances over her shoulder to the door, where more and more and _more_ people are cramming their way in.

Yuuri flounders, counting out her money and slipping it into the till as the next man in line places his order.

“Small coffee, black.”

“Espresso.”

“Flat white.”

“Double-shot skinny latte, no foam.”

One by one, the orders come, and with each one Yuuri fumbles over his tickets, over their money, growing more and more flustered with each new customer. His face is hot, he can feel it, pulsing red over his cheeks as he bends to pick up a scattering of dropped coins. Beside him Phichit’s hands fly over the coffee machine, tongue poking between his teeth as he concentrates on the flurry of new orders.

Soon enough, the shop is booming.

“Jeez,” Phichit says as the last order goes out, wiping an arm over his brow. “It’s _Thursday,_  what’s gotten into everyone?”

Yuuri shakes his head. There is something...odd, about the business, more than just the day of the week. They are here, all of them, crowding every chair and every table, but they are _quiet_. The noise that buzzes between them is a hum, muffled behind cupped hands or raised mugs, and every eye is trained, strangely, on the front door.

“It’s like,” he whispers, tipping closer to Phichit for fear his words will shatter the strange, pressing tension, “it’s like they’re...waiting for something.”

Phichit nods.

The pair of them find themselves, too, watching the door. The anticipation is palpable throughout the little shop, and it’s _contagious_.

With every second that goes by, Yuuri finds his shirt sticking more and more to the skin of his back; the collar is too tight, rubs wrong against his neck, and he loosens his bowtie and the top two buttons, for a little breathing room.

“What do you think they’re waiting for?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri shrugs a shoulder.

Suddenly, a tight little squeal erupts from a table by the window, and a girl in a high school uniform vibrates in her seat.

“He’s coming!”

The hum in the room grows louder, drowns out the music bubbling through the speakers, and Yuuri exchanges a wary look with Phichit.

The bell above the door chimes, and Yuuri chokes.

There are many, many things Yuuri has anticipated happening in their small-town foot-of-the-mountain coffee shop. Fires, robberies, earthquakes, landslides, the man from the corner store ordering a flat white instead of a cappuccino, the coffee machine running out of beans and _hell_ , even the shop being busy on a Thursday.

But never, not in a million, _billion_ years, could Yuuri have ever imagined that Viktor Nikiforov would set foot in the building.

It...it doesn’t make any _sense._  He’s hallucinating, he must be, because there is no way—no _way_ Viktor could...Viktor could...Viktor _is_ closing the door to the coffee shop behind him.

But he must be here, he _has_ to be. The customers have bubbled up as one, a loud, boisterous babble of noise, and for a while, Viktor just surveys the lot. They clamour for his attention, scrambling upright in their chairs and stretching over their tables, but none of them, it seems, are brave enough to approach him.

And rightly so, Yuuri thinks, because Viktor oozes even more charisma in person than he does on the television, and he hasn’t even opened his stupid, shiny pink lips yet.

Yet.

The moment he does, though, clears his throat and bleeds a deep, rumbling, “ _good afternoon,_ ” in a thick, throaty accent, they all fall quiet once more. It’s a _spell_ , Yuuri swears. An enchantment spread throughout the whole room, bypassing only the coffee machine and the speakers wringing out a light, jingling tune in every corner.

Looking at Viktor now, and _hearing_ Viktor now, Yuuri has no real idea how he ever planned to skate on the same stage as him. Not just because he’s so tall, so strong, so _confident_ even as he stands, spotlighted in too many pairs of eyes, but because he is…

Because Yuuri’s knees are wobbling behind the counter, and Viktor hasn’t even started _walking_ yet.

Yuuri always imagined it’d be easier, somehow. He has pictured the two of them standing-off, Viktor in his spangled chiffon shirts and his fancy, floaty jackets, golden accents shimmering beneath the overheads and Yuuri standing tall before him, chin held high and eyes burning bright. Calm. Collected. Ready to _win_.

It turns out, Yuuri’s instant reaction to Viktor Nikiforov in the flesh is to sweat even more than he already was.

“That’s—” Phichit starts, and Yuuri nods. His sweat-damp hair flops over his forehead and his glasses wobble against his nose. Oh, it’s too hot, it is too hot and he is too hot and Viktor is _especially_ too hot, and this is one hundred per cent the best, but also the most terrible moment of his young _life_.

They were supposed to meet on their _stage_. Yuuri was supposed to save for a coach, for competition fees and travel expenses, was supposed to worm his way into the big leagues and find Viktor there waiting.

Viktor was not supposed to find him, sweating his ass off in this too-small too-hot coffee shop.

Viktor gives a few lax, lopsided smiles to the people at their tables, all of them silent and squirming beneath his gaze, and then he waltzes right up to the counter, and drops his sunglasses a little way down his nose.

Yuuri has a script. A series of well-versed lines, of greetings and questions and polite niceties, and over the three years he has been working the counter, Yuuri has never, ever got them wrong. It’s second nature, rolls off his tongue no matter how busy, how tired, how _flustered_ he may be. And so, in that confidence, Yuuri opens his dry mouth and licks at his dry lips, swallows against his barren throat, and he says,

“Help.”

Viktor raises a brow, and Yuuri’s face flames. He’s glowing, he must be, there is no way his face could be so hot without real fire burning over it.

“Help _you,_ ” he says, “Can I— _H_ _ow_ can I...help you?”

Viktor’s grin tucks higher over one cheek. _God_ , oh god, how did Yuuri think he’d ever in a million years be able to stand on the same stage as this man? How did he think he could _handle_ it, standing side by side with Viktor Nikiforov without melting right down to his bones?

On what _planet_ —

“Ah, double-shot americano,” Viktor says, too loud and far too _smooth_ , and the other customers lean in to one another to whisper. “No milk, no sugar, just coffee and extra hot water.”

Yuuri reaches shaking hands for a ticket and fumbles with the lid of his pen. Phichit waits for a cup with a smile pinching his lips, bitten back behind his teeth.

Yuuri drops the pen, and it hits the counter with a clatter.

“Sorry,” he says, “Sorry, double-shot Americano—”

He reaches for the pen, and as he does, Viktor’s hand folds over it, too.

 _God_ , he’s warm. The skin of his palms is soft, softer than Yuuri had ever imagined ( _not_ that he’s ever...ever imagined it at all, ever, in his life) and the tips of his fingers burn where the settle against the back of Yuuri’s hand.

His breath is warm, too, _hot_ even, tickling the hair against Yuuri’s ear as he leans in close, so close Yuuri can smell soap, and mint, a musky cologne and something a little flowery, fragrant, too many scents that flutter his lashes and shudder his breath from his chest.

Viktor is _too_ close. Too warm, too soft, smells too good. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, and the plump press of Viktor’s lips ghosts against his ear.

“Hot chocolate.”

Yuuri’s eyes snap open.

“Eh?”

“I want a hot chocolate,” he says, and he pulls back enough that Yuuri can see his face. There’s something sheepish to him, now, in the pinch of his eyes and the hand that scratches at the back of his neck. He smiles, and then he laughs, keeping his face so close Yuuri can still feel the whisper of breath on his skin.

“I love hot chocolate,” he says, “but it’s _embarrassing_ , being the only adult in the coffee shop ordering it, don’t you think?”

“I...suppose?” Yuuri isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to agree or not; to disagree, to argue, might make Viktor feel a little better about his drinking preferences, but there is too much potential to make him feel _worse_ for Yuuri to take the risk.

“Right? So, can you put that through,” Viktor pushes both Yuuri’s hand and the pen across the bench, and pulls his own hand away, “as a hot chocolate, but get your friend to call out a coffee, yeah?”

“I...suppose,” Yuuri says again. He lifts the pen and, as an afterthought, he adds, “is that a...luxury, hot chocolate?”

Viktor’s eyes stretch a little wider.

“Cream and marshmallows?” He whispers, apprehensive, almost, like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up too high. Yuuri nods.

“We do sprinkles and a flake, too, if...if you want that.”

Viktor nods his head. Not just a _nod_ , but an emphatic one, so enthusiastic his sunglasses wobble right the way down his nose.

Yuuri scribbles down the order and the message, slaps the ticket on a cup, and passes it over to Phichit.

“Can I get you anything else?” He asks— _God_ he sounds stupid, words fumbling thick from his tongue and does he always sound so mindless? So _bored_?

Viktor shakes his head.

“No, thanks,” he says, “that’ll be all.”

“Alright.” Yuuri punches buttons on the till—wrong once, wrong twice, opens the drawer by mistake and rams himself in the gut with it—until the right price beeps up on the screen.

“That’ll be—” he starts, but Viktor is already piling money at him, notes gathering on the counter top.

“Keep the change.”

It is entirely too much money. Yuuri can tell already before he even counts it out; too many notes for one hot chocolate.

“This is—”

“You have a tip jar, right?” Viktor says, and Yuuri nods to it. Viktor picks up the little empty glass and waves it in the air. “Not much in here for such a busy day.”

Yuuri sorts the correct money into the till and eyes what is left warily. It’s far too much for a tip, even a generous one; more than the price of his drink by two or three times. But Viktor is still smiling, still holding the jar, and so Yuuri sifts the notes through the top with trembling fingers, then grips at the front of his apron to hide their shaking.

Viktor walks like he owns the shop.  Long, elegant strides of his long, elegant legs, right the way over to the end of the bench where Phichit is working, foaming milk and scooping mini marshmallows from a big pot.

Phichit is always good at making conversation. He’s just... _nice_ , Yuuri thinks, and chatty, but today even _he_ is quiet. His gaze is shifting from the milk to Viktor and to Yuuri in turn, and with each sweep of his eyes, the corners of his lips tug a little further over his cheeks.

“We don’t see many big faces around here, Mr. Nikiforov, sir,” Phichit says. Viktor hums, and shakes his fringe out of his eyes.

“Sometimes it’s nice,” Viktor says, waving a hand, “and the air is so fresh out here in the mountains! It’s the perfect place to find a little...inspiration.”

It must...it must be a trick of the light, the way Viktor’s sharp, clear eyes flash his way, because there is no way—no way, Viktor just looked at him.  

“And your coach?” Phichit asks, squirting cream on top of Viktor’s drink. “Is he okay with you up and leaving? It’s still—Yuuri, it’s the middle of the skating season, right?”

Yuuri blinks, and nods his head. For a moment, Viktor’s face goes blank, wide-eyed and pale, and then laughs—it’s light, airy, face pinching up about his eyes—and scratches at the back of his neck.

“Ah, I forgot to tell him I was leaving!”

Yes, Yuuri thinks. _Exactly_ like his media self.

Phichit sticks a chocolate flake in the cream on Viktor’s drink, and slides it over towards him, smiling.

“Maybe you should let him know,” he says. “But first—one luxury hot—”

Yuuri scrambles from behind the till, past the coffee machine and clambers over Phichit’s shoulder, cupping both palms over his mouth. In his haste, his glasses topple down his cheeks, morphing the coffee shop, the hot chocolate, and Viktor into one big, blurry blob.

“Double-shot americano!” Yuuri shouts. “Double-shot americano, no milk, no sugar, extra...extra hot water.”

Phichit breaths a heavy against Yuuri’s hands. Viktor’s blurry hand takes the drink, and the pale, hazy oval of his face tilts a little to one side.

“Thank you,” he says. Yuuri drops down onto his feet and straightens out his glasses, while Phichit wipes his palm-sweat from his chin.

Yuuri nods. He nods and nods, neverending, can’t find it in his brain to tell himself to stop because Viktor is—he’s smiling, but it’s not a smile Yuuri has ever seen before. It’s softer than anything he has seen on tv, kinder than the grins he gives in interviews and it is aimed right at him, bleeding all the way up into his eyes.

“Welcome. You—I mean, you’re...you’re welcome.”

Yuuri’s tongue feels like sandpaper behind his teeth. It sits tacky and heavy and _dry_ , so dry it sticks to the roof of his mouth, stumbles his words and chokes his breath at the back of his throat. And Viktor, he keeps staring, hooded eyes peering over the rim of his cup as he sips at his drink.

Phichit’s head swivels back and forth between them.

“Hey!” He says, breaking the tension that has settled between them, “we’re running short on mugs, so I’m gonna go—”

“I’ll go,” Yuuri says. “I’ll go collect the...the dirty ones.”

It’s stupid, it is, because at any other moment, Yuuri thinks he’d love to be left alone with Viktor. Love the chance to talk—about skating, and competing, about having a coach and having rink mates and the big, wide world of competitive skating—but right now, it’s too much.

He is too hot, too sweaty, too _nervous_ to even consider standing here, alone, with Viktor and his stupid cream moustache and no Phichit to keep him from thoroughly humiliating himself.

So instead, he turns, gathers a tray from beneath the counter, and heads out into the shop to gather up all the used mugs, trying his best to calm the whirlwind in his veins and let the dust in his head and in his heart start to settle.

* * *

Next Thursday morning, Yuuri has barely turned the sign from closed to open before the first couple of customers come in.

Business, over the last week, has been booming. They would like to believe it’s because of the coffee, or the cosy decor, or the friendly, smiling staff or maybe just the warmth in the Winter chill, but Yuuri knows better.

They have been busy, because every day for the past week, Viktor has stopped by for his luxury hot chocolate and a stool right up by the counter.

Phichit, at least, has gotten used to it. He and Viktor seemed _friendly_ , even, chatting to one side while Yuuri deals with the customers, and it’s not that he’s _jealous_ , not really, but he does sort of wish he’d learned how to work the coffee machine an awful lot sooner.

“He’s here for a _month_ , you know,” Phichit had told him on Saturday, the two of them sweeping up the remnants of the day from the dusty wood floor. “Said practising somewhere quieter than his rink back home might help his concentration.”

“Yuuko said business at the rink has been booming,” Phichit had told him on Monday, locking the door and ghosting misty breath in the night air. “Viktor books a couple of private sessions, but for the most part he skates around with everyone else.”

“How come you haven’t been skating all week, huh?” Phichit had said on Tuesday, elbow digging into Yuuri’s waist behind the counter. “It’s not like you to miss out on a little extra practice.”

“He saw your YouTube channel, you know,” Phichit had said quietly this morning, eyes twinkling over the coffee machine as he watched Yuuri re-fill the last sugar pot on the tables.

Yuuri had toppled the pot, and the sugar cubes had rattled over the table and cascaded to the floor.

Yuuri thinks about that all morning.

It’s not like it _means_ anything. Not like...not like Viktor would come all the way to little-Nowhere, Japan, just because he saw little-No one Yuuri skate a few shoddy programmes on the internet. It just wouldn’t happen—life doesn’t fall in your lap like that, Yuuri thinks, punching an order into the till and wringing his spare hand in his apron.

It doesn’t, but…

But he can’t help wishing it _would_.

At two o’clock on the dot, Viktor strolls through the door, and Yuuri’s face burns scarlet.

 _Don’t think about it_ , he tells himself, forcing his quivering mouth into what he hopes is an easy kind of smile, _don’t think about it._

It being, Viktor flying all the way from Russia to train here, in this town, for a whole month, because he saw Yuuri skate. What real, professional adult man does something like that?

They don’t. Real adults aren’t that _simple_ , and Yuuri refuses to let himself believe Viktor might be the exception.

“Double-shot americano?” Yuuri asks, a tremor to his tone. Viktor nods, and then he winks, and Yuuri tries his absolute best to _not_ melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Please.”

As per the norm, Yuuri scribbles _luxury hot choc_ on the ticket, sticks it to a mug, and passes it to Phichit, and as usual, Viktor hands him entirely too much money, and slips to the end of the bench, leaning over to talk as Phichit prepares his drink.

Viktor rests a hand over his thumping heart and shakes his head. _Stop_ , he thinks, _stop thinking about it. Stop hoping for it_.

 _Stop entertaining the notion that Viktor is here for you_.

It seems to go on forever, Viktor and Phichit’s conversation, stretching long after Viktor has drained his mug and while most days the pair of them are _loud_ , laughing and smiling and clicking the cameras on their phones, today they are hushed, close-faced and whispering over the counter.

Yuuri tries his best to listen in. He’s not nosy, not normally, but there is something suspicious about the furtive glances both Phichit _and_ Viktor are sending his way. They are too quiet, but even over the grind of beans in the machine, Yuuri catches a few words that slip from Phichit’s mouth.

“ _...shy...not too...calm…like a baby bird…"_

“Okay,” Viktor says after a time, loud enough for everyone to hear. He stands, stool legs scraping over the floor, and adjusts the collar of his jacket. Phichit gives him a thumbs up, and ushers him away, around the bench and back to where Yuuri stands behind the till.

For a second, he doesn’t say a word. He looks down at Yuuri with a steady, calculating gaze, eyes a little nipped at the corners, and then—then—

—then he leans right over the counter, brushes long, smooth fingers to tickle under Yuuri’s jaw, tilting his face up into the light. Viktor is, once again, too close—entirely so, pressed so tight Yuuri can feel the tip of his nose nudge alongside his own.

When he speaks, the glossy swell of his lips sticks against Yuuri’s own, and there can’t possibly be steam coming out of his ears, there _can’t_ be, it’s impossible, but Yuuri thinks there might well be all the same. His head is hot and full and _whistling_. Screaming.

“I hear,” Viktor says, low and throaty, “that you like to skate, Yuuri?”

Phichit’s hand tugs Yuuri back by the shoulder. He stumbles in a daze, eyes glazed and face _boiling_ , as Phichit covers his eyes with a hand and leans over the counter.

“Not like—no,” he hisses, “he’s _shy_. Be less...like _that_. Like I told you—not too...forward.”  

And then he steps back, behind the coffee machine, and turns his face away to pretend he isn’t listening.

Viktor clears his throat, and scratches at the back of his head.

“Eeh, Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri gathers himself together enough to nod his acknowledgement. “What I meant to say was…” he stops again, and fishes around for the right thing to say. Yuuri watches him probe for the right words, tapping his fingers on the counter and scrunching his mouth to one side.  And then—

“Why don’t you come skate after work? I’ve seen your videos, but…” He trails away, then, and peers at Yuuri through low, heavy eyes. “But I’d like to see what you can do in person.”

Yuuri’s brain short-circuits one last time, because this is how he _dies_ , it must be. Viktor has—Viktor has seen him _skate_ , wants to see him skate more, came all the way out here to this quiet, lazy mountain town _knowing_ Yuuri would—knowing he would—

Knowing he would be here. This is a dream—a fever dream, or else the afterlife, a world beyond death where your wildest dreams really do come true. Heaven in a little coffee shop.

Phichit slaps both hands over his face and shakes his head.

“He’ll be there!” He says, circling the counter and turning Viktor by the shoulders. “As soon as we close. I’ll walk him there myself, okay? So you can go now, before—”

Yuuri slumps over against the counter, and though his face is buried in his folded arms, he is sure the fiery red glow of his cheeks is blazing bright enough for everyone to see.

“—before you break him.”

There is a commotion as Viktor leaves. Some drain the dregs from their cups and turn to follow, and others squeak and squeal behind their hands and others, they look right up at the counter. Right at Yuuri, where Phichit is slapping his back with a grin and fishing his phone from his pocket for a picture.

* * *

Of all the things he would like to be doing at twenty two, Yuuri thinks, locking the door for the night and swinging his skate bag over his shoulder, working in a coffee shop is...maybe not the worst thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I actually know next to nothing about Yuri on Ice. I still haven't finished watching it, so I'm super sorry if characterisation is a little iffy in places but I wanted to do smth nice for my pals birthday and this is what I came up with. ANYWAY I hope you've enjoyed it, and thanks in advance for any comments/kudos/bookmarks etc, they always make my day <3 as always, if you want to you can find me on tumblr @ someone-stole-my-shoes :) 
> 
> One last time - happy early birthday my guy!!


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